


le désir devient ma prison

by slverflint



Category: Mozart l'Opéra Rock - Mozart/Baguian & Guirao
Genre: (with hidden depths), Anal Sex, Angst, Dream Sex, Hair Pulling, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Light BDSM, Love/Hate, M/M, Masturbation, Mozart Is A Shit, Oral Sex, Pining, Poor Salieri, So much angst, Voyeurism, im gonna tag it just in case, im in love with flo's hair and it's rather obvious, this might end up being kinkier, we shall see
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 11:28:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7932916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slverflint/pseuds/slverflint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mozart, the man and the music, tears at Salieri's soul. Desire and hatred are cruel bedfellows. But it's so good to suffer...</p>
            </blockquote>





	le désir devient ma prison

**Author's Note:**

> There are two people to blame for this fic and you know who you are. Nevertheless, this is the first thing I've written for this fandom (and the first thing I've written in a long long time) so be gentle, although feedback and criticism is much encouraged and appreciated! I'm off to uni this week, so I have no idea when I'll update, but I just thought I'd upload this as a wee taste ;)
> 
> Obviously these are the characters as portrayed in the wonderful comédie musicale Mozart L'Opéra Rock, and bear no relation to the real historical individuals (although I apologise to them in advance)

 “Know your place and all will be well between us.” The words hung strained and heavy in the air. Salieri was suddenly aware of his knuckle-white hands gripping the manuscript, the scratch of the parchment on his skin, the tightness of his collar, the heat of those expectant brown eyes piercing him... His trembling fingers suddenly loosened, and the manuscript fell to the floor with a thud that echoed between his temples. Mozart's music had taken him, engulfed him, emptied his head and filled it with nothing but _him_ and now Salieri was crashing back to earth and the viscous reality was too much to bear. He was battered, bruised, shaken to his core – as if he had been thrown like a ragdoll. It was all the composer could do to turn and walk out of the room. Peals of laughter followed him – that _damned_ giggle, that grating, obnoxious, haunting giggle – but he could not hear them. It was as if he were underwater. The world span, but Salieri's posture was rigid as a board, for he feared that anything else, any uncontrolled movement, would send him crumpling to the floor. There was an ache inside of him that had not been there all but minutes ago, but was now threatening to open and swallow him whole. That music was the most beautiful thing Salieri had ever heard, but it tore at his soul, a destructive dance of agony and ecstasy coursing through him. How could a man such as Mozart – a man so infuriating, so careless, so disgustingly, sacrilegiously human create something so heavenly? The man and the music must be separate, that was the only explanation. Beauty and sin could not exist simultaneously, and the reasoning offered a small comfort to Salieri. But why then did these feelings still linger? Why did they still thrum in his blood: the fevered beauty that left him breathless, the terrible, searing pain that ripped into him, forcing him to choke back a sob? They would not leave, would not cease their scratching at the back of his skull, which seemed as if it were about to split open. Head throbbing, hands shaking, Salieri would never be as glad to get back to his rooms as he was in that moment.

 

“Salieri! Salieri!” Halfway across the courtyard, Rosenberg came scuttling up to him, tapping his cane impatiently. Salieri clenched his jaw, teeth biting into his tongue in an attempt to regain control of himself. He would not, _could_ not show that anything was wrong, no matter the battle it took to stop himself from shoving Rosenberg away and fleeing. No, he must appear perfectly calm and, above all, in control. He was the court composer after all... Suddenly the words tasted bitter in his mouth. Salieri shook his head, putting every last ounce of his self control into forcing a smile, and responded through gritted teeth.

 

“What do you want, Rosenberg?” The last word came out as a hoarse drawl, eliciting a nervous titter from the courtier.

 

“Why Maestro Salieri, I had heard that you were just listening to that ghastly mess of Wolfgang Mozart's, and I am curious, was it as bad as it looked?” The little man fixed Salieri with a beady glare, a glare far too severe to be coming from someone so ridiculous.

 

A beat. Salieri blinked heavily and Rosenberg took that as his cue to continue. “It truly is absurd, how on earth did he expect anyone to take that seriously? Although nowhere near as absurd as his plans to write an opera in German - in German! Can you imagine it, Salieri? A German opera buffa!” He broke off, clutching his chest in mirth. Salieri said nothing and Rosenberg composed himself, coughing awkwardly. “But no, that is a matter for another time... This particular piece – it is unnecessary, self-indulgent and frankly obscene! I don't know what he thinks he's playing at – he's making a mockery of himself, the court, and most importantly...” His voice dropped to a whisper, “The emperor! It's a complete farce, and I have no idea why the emperor –“ Rosenberg glanced furtively and huffed, “ –in his infinite wisdom and majesty of course – puts up with this _nonsense_! Trop! De! Notes!” The rant was punctuated by three loud raps of his cane, each causing Salieri to wince more than the last.

 

“But I digress, what _did_ you think, Salieri? You have been awfully quiet...” Rosenberg seemed genuinely interested. Salieri chose his words carefully, keeping his voice as steady as a rock.

“It was.... unlike anything I have ever heard. Ludicrous.” He swallowed, and bowed stiffly. “Now if you'll excuse me, Herr Rosenberg...” Salieri was gone before Rosenberg could open his mouth. The courtier shrugged, rolled his eyes, and trotted away whistling.

 

Salieri arrived back at his rooms, the door swinging wildly behind him. He immediately climbed the stairs to his study, put his half-finished compositions neatly on the desk, sat down at the pianoforte and began to weep.

 

“Maestro Salieri... Antonio... ” A voice roused Salieri from where he was slumped at the piano, head resting on the music stand. “Did you like my aria this afternoon? I thought you might, I know you have an eye for beauty...” Salieri stood up and turned around to see Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart standing in his doorway. How long had he been there? Salieri hastily rubbed his eyes with the back of his sleeve, trying to compose himself, but he could not keep the shock off his face.

 

“Herr Mozart... What are you doing here?” Mozart smiled, head tilted to one side and teeth dazzling.

 

“Like I said, Antonio, I simply came to see whether or not you appreciate my music.” Salieri remained dumbstruck, he had forgotten how to speak entirely. The repeated use of his first name sent a curious shiver through him, prickling at his skin. Salieri's eyes flashed with something undefinable and he found himself biting his tongue, the veneer of self-control cracking and slipping with every second that passed.

 

Looked him up and down, eyebrows raised, Mozart clearly found amusement in Salieri's flustered stuttering. He laughed, a captivating thing. Head thrown back, his slender neck and barely stubbled jawline was exposed and Salieri felt a sudden, unexplained urge to touch, to kiss, to bite...

 

And then all of a sudden he saw Mozart's casually languid pose, leaning against the doorframe. He saw Mozart's shirt open almost to the naval, the extreme tightness of his breeches and the strange expression in the man's dark, glittering eyes. Fear and longing gripped him simultaneously, a hot spike of desire coursing through his body and forcing a low, choked sound from his throat. Salieri stumbled backwards, clutching the edge of the piano as if he were a man on the brink of the abyss.

 

In an instant, Mozart surged forward, pinning Salieri against the piano. With a devilish grin, his body was pressed up against Salieri's, their faces mere inches from one another. Salieri fell against the keys: a chord, dissonant and grating, resonated through his body. It seemed as if every part of them was touching: skin dragged against clothes at the slightest movement and the heat, the sheer presence of Mozart's body against his set Salieri's blood aflame and white light flashing behind his eyes. The younger man's breath was hot on his neck – wide, darkened eyes looked up at him through golden lashes. They flicked to his lips, then back to Salieri's eyes. Mozart tilted his head to one side – questioning – and Salieri instinctively mirrored him, following those deep brown eyes with his own, glazed and blown wide. The space was thick and suffocating between them, an unbreakable tension fixing the distance, both attracting and repelling.

 

And then the distance broke. The fevered press of Mozart's lips to Salieri's sent a shudder through him as his arms lifted of their own accord and grasped at the small of Mozart's back. His lips parted, soft and wet, and then Mozart's tongue was diving inside his mouth, sliding against his tongue, scraping against his teeth, attempting to taste every part of Salieri. Suddenly, his body was able to move. A deep hunger filled him, and he rose, lips never parting from the younger man's. Ravenously he kissed him, teeth clashing, hands roaming, beard dragging against his cheek. He broke away panting, just for a second, and then began to press clumsy, wet kisses to the soft underside of his jaw. Mozart groaned and shifted against Salieri, grasping at the back of his collar urgently, breath hot against his ear. The friction was unbearable, yet Salieri craved it more than anything he had ever known. He pulled Mozart's body closer, feeling the muscles tighten beneath his hands and, rubbing against him, a swelling hardness that matched his own. Unable to stop himself, Salieri let out a broken moan, so deep it was almost a growl, and the sharp intake of breath that greeted it made his head spin with desire.

 

Suddenly Mozart's lips were gone. Salieri blinked dizzily and as his eyes refocused, found those beautiful brown eyes, now almost black, staring glassily into his. Mozart's hand reached behind Salieri's head and gently, ever so gently, loosened the ribbon that kept his hair neatly tucked away. Salieri's hair fell round his shoulders, a cascade of black that caught in the candlelight and danced with shimmers of flame. The ribbon fell. Mozart caressed his cheek, fingers dragging against his beard before falling to his neck. Slowly, Mozart untied Salieri's cravat and loosened his shirt, long fingers brushing lightly over his newly exposed collarbone. The slack-jawed look of naked lust on Mozart's face almost sent Salieri staggering once again, but instead he tore the jacket from the composer's shoulders, carelessly throwing it across the room. He fumbled with the buttons on his waistcoat, the younger man following suit, until they were both divested of them. Carefully, reverently, Salieri lifted the shirt over Mozart's head. He stood there bare-chested, almost angelic in the candlelight. Salieri paused, unable to tear his eyes from the sight in front of him. It wasn't until Mozart touched a hand to his shoulder that Salieri realised he was trembling.

 

In one swift motion, Mozart removed Salieri's shirt. Once again, he stepped into Salieri, except this time, there was just skin against skin and god, if Salieri thought he had lost his mind before, that was nothing compared to now.

 

“You know, Salieri... Music is the most beautiful of God's creations, I'm sure you'll agree – and I am gifted enough to be its vessel – but you and I...” Mozart breathed a laugh, nose lightly brushing Salieri's cheek, “Antonio, we could create something even more beautiful. Our music, why, it would be sublime...”

 

And with that, Mozart knelt in front of Salieri and began to undo the buttons of his breeches, pulling them apart until they hung loose round his hips. His hand reached up, fingers sliding, thumb lightly stroking Salieri's hip bone. Mozart looked up at him, dark and fevered through half-lidded eyes and Salieri's cheeks burned. He was breathlessly, achingly hard, and the softest touch sent shudders racking through his body. Already, the front of his undergarments were soaked, the buttons almost breaking. A flush of shame ran through him at how brazenly wanton he must look, but the haze of lust had left him unable to focus on anything but the need to be touched. As if reading his thoughts, Mozart grinned – eyes flashing – and softly pressed his mouth against him, tongue lapping at the thin fabric that separated his tongue from Salieri's straining cock. Salieri's breath hitched, hands curling and digging nails into his palm. Mozart continued, touching feather-light kisses to his hips, his thighs, the head of his cock, but still never undoing the buttons of his drawers. Sliding his hands round Salieri's hips, he skimmed his thumbs under the waistband, teasing, visibly enjoying the way the composer's thighs shook at the lightest of touches. Lightning quick, Mozart dipped his hand down and squeezed Salieri's ass. Salieri cried out, a broken sob. He was no longer able to wait, no longer able to reason, and he fumbled desperately at the buttons of his undergarments. Circling his hips once again, long, steady fingers joined shaking ones and finally, _finally_ , Mozart slid a hand to the base of Salieri's cock and took him in his mouth.

 

Salieri's senses exploded: the tight, wet heat of Mozart's mouth; that slick tongue licking the underside of his cock; the choked moans coming from the man in front of him; those hands digging into the backs of Salieri's thighs – the man was as desperate, as _wanting_ as he was... Salieri's hands slid into Mozart's hair, curling round the feathered blond locks, caressing and tugging, pulling him closer. Mozart groaned and Salieri's hips bucked involuntarily, hands threading tighter through the younger man's hair. Salieri was lost in time – nothing else existed in that moment, nothing but the feel of Mozart's mouth and tongue moving, licking and sucking on his cock. His breathing grew ragged, hands clenching and unclenching. The sensation was unbearable, so good it burned, and he didn't think he could last much longer.

 

“God... Mozart...” Salieri was a man debauched: lips parted, shining; locks of hair sticking to his flushed cheeks; hips thrusting a rhythm together with Mozart's mouth; his expression one of such need it was almost of pain. Mozart was no better – utterly ravished, hair a complete mess, saliva and pre-cum dripped down his chin and low, whining moans came from his throat. He worshipped Salieri's cock, tongue swiping and licking, one hand twisting the base while the other stroked and squeezed his ass, pulling Salieri closer to him.

 

Mozart surfaced – pulling his mouth off Salieri's cock with a wet _pop_ , he took several gasping lungfuls of air. Once again, he looked up at Salieri. But this time, instead of teasing and devilish, the look in his eyes was nothing but wild. Open mouthed and panting, Salieri could not tear his gaze away from this dark, feral lust. Before he or his body could respond, Mozart had swallowed him down in one. The head of Salieri's cock slid against the back of Mozart's throat, which tightened around him, and then his whole body shook, a symphony of light and sound exploding behind his eyes. The orgasm tore through him, his cock pulsing hot liquid. He cried out, a wrecked scream that said but one thing: _Mozart..._

 

A dissonant chord jarred through Salieri, his head snapping up as he awoke with a shout and slammed his arms onto the pianoforte. Startled and disorientated, he rocked backwards on the piano stool and nearly fell off entirely. It was a while before his breathing calmed enough to stop his head from swimming. As he regained balance and consciousness, he looked wildly around to see what had happened. Here he was, sitting at the pianoforte where he had been last night. Last night. He must have fallen asleep. But wasn't Mozart here? If he had fallen asleep, then surely... _Oh_. He shifted in his seat, and all of a sudden last night's dreams came rushing back to him. Along with the realisation that, yes, that was his own cum he could feel dripping down his leg. Shame gripped him, shame and fear at the _wrongness_ of his dreams. This could not be, he hated Mozart, loathed him with every fibre of his being. Salieri would not harbour these sinful desires towards him... It was simply unthinkable. Salieri swore to himself that this was nothing. He would forget that dream, and he would continue with his life – and the devotion of his life to music – without ever even thinking the name Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.

 

 


End file.
